“Oh, please. You’re obviously not a Norditch girl—you’ve got the right coloring, but your build is all wrong. We Norditch women are made strong and sturdy to survive the ice and cold; you’re like a delicate little snowflake that could blow away at anymoment. And then there’s the accent, of course. You come from one of the southern countries, if I had to make a guess.”
“Ha,” Norva cackled. “That’s not a very impressive deduction. All of Eukarya is south of us.”
Mormor continued as if she hadn’t heard. “Your coat is far too thin. Anyone from Cabriole, or even Brisia would have known that you need more than a light wool jacket to survive up here. You come from money—that much is obvious by your dress and the state of your hands—but you didn’t come with more than the clothes on your back, which means it was likely an unsanctioned trip, and not a very well-planned one at that. So what is it? Did you fight with your mother? Did your lover reject you for another? Did you feel stifled by the expectations of high society?”
“Mormor!” Norva hissed, looking back and forth between the old woman and Lizzie with wide eyes. “Don’t be rude. I’m sure Eliza has a perfectly good reason for coming here.”
Mormor scoffed. “They never do. I’ve lived more than a century, and I can tell you that every poor child who has run all the way to Norditch discovered that everything could have been solved by a healthy bit of communication or soul-searching, and often both. As I always say, “Miscommunication is the poison oak of relationships; both lead to rash reactions.’”
Norva’s basket lay abandoned on her lap, and she nervously twisted a willow shoot in her fingers, obviously nervous about Lizzie’s reaction.
She had no reason to be. As always, Lizzie’s emotions were like a calm, waveless ocean. She absorbed Mormor’s words as indifferently as she might the recitation of a pie recipe.
Honesty is obviously the best policy here, if I want to retain their good graces. Mormor is trying to appear abrasive, but she seems to deliver her words from a place of care.
Lizzie looked up from her lopsided basket to meet Mormor’s eyes. “I’m from Nedra.”
“That’s quite a long distance. What made you decide to come all this way? I’m certain it wasn’t the weather, not when you could have traveled down to Kysta much more easily.”
Lizzie picked up another willow shoot and attempted to add it to her basket the way that Norva had shown her. “I wanted to see a reindeer.”
Mormor scoffed. “Surely that’s not all.”
“My father lost his temper and decided to give me in marriage to the next man who came to the door.”
Chapter Nine
Lizzie
Once the truth was out, neither Mormor nor Norva were content with anything less than the full story. They listened, punctuating Lizzie’s recap with exclamations of shock or disgust.
“When I told him that I would not marry Prince Shea, Father became visibly angry and yelled that he would marry me to the next man to come to the door. As it happened, the next man was a wandering minstrel with a beard so bushy and unkempt that a bird could have made a nest in it, and no one would know.”
Norva’s hand flew to her mouth. “Surely your father reconsidered. He knew absolutely nothing about the man.”
Lizzie shook her head. The memories of that night had brought with them an echo of the embarrassment, fear, andanger, though time and distance had muted them to nothing more than an uncomfortable buzz in her chest and twisting in her stomach. They certainly would not have been enough to spur her into action now. “He announced to the man and everyone else in the room that we would be married in the morning.”
A sound of disgust left Mormor’s mouth. “The man isn’t fit to be a father, much less a king. As I always say, “A crown sits heavily on the head of a king, and it will topple him without a brain as counterweight.’”
“So you left before the wedding, I take it?” Norva looked pointedly at Lizzie’s bare fingers.
“Yes. I packed a bag and left that night.”
Mormor looked at her curiously. “You seem to be taking all of this rather well. A betrayal like that would have brought most women to tears.”
She folded her hands over her basket, half-finished and abandoned for the time-being. “I have been living with my father’s temper my entire life. Though the consequence was surprising, the situation behind it was not. He’s a brilliant politician and a strong king, but he’s never been a kind man. The most surprising part of all of this was his ready willingness to blatantly ignore a previous agreement with an ally country.”
“And what agreement was that?”
“I am—or was, I suppose—engaged to the prince of Kysta. Given my father’s actions, I would not be surprised if the betrothal is no longer in place.”
Norva scoffed. “You were betrothed already, and he was lining up suitors for your hand? This requires another pot of tea.” She rose heavily and crossed the room to the stove.
“I’m no expert in politics,” Mormor added, “but I’m sure that’s an offense your fiancé would not have taken lightly.”
“Perhaps.”
The old woman’s gaze sharpened. “Or perhaps you wanted him to take offense?”
